Matched
by Shanaqui
Summary: A sparring match. BalthierxFran.


"Have you ever tried anything but a bow?" Balthier asks. Fran turns back at the door of the shop, her new bow in her hand -- pleasingly supple, she found, on being allowed to try it. Balthier has a long, slim sword in his hand; a flimsy thing, it looks, barely capable of piercing human skin, let alone sinking deep into a gut. She frowns at him.

"A bow is my weapon of choice."

"Narrow-minded," he says, chidingly. He flicks his wrist and tosses her the rapier -- her lightning-quick reflexes allow her to catch it perfectly, her hand closing around the hilt. "That sword is light and allows for swiftness of movement, an asset I'm sure you can turn to your will. You could handle a broadsword, but I do not think it suited to your build or style. You will find it not as easy to break as it looks, and sharper than you could guess when someone pierces you with one. A thing I think you sensible enough to avoid, of course."

"It is so flimsy," she says, wondering if he has really bought it for her, just like that. "And is this not yours?"

"We had extra money from that hunt, so I thought to purchase an extra." He shrugs just a little. "If you are truly unwilling to try -- "

She feels the slightness of it in her hand and imagines how lightning-quick it could be. Sometimes, when Balthier has switched to a sword, she has longed for this -- to be able to jump into the fight beside him. A bow is a natural weapon for her, but then, she leaves the Wood behind more and more every day. "I will try," she says, interrupting him in mid-flow.

"Good," he says, barely looking surprised, and he tosses a small pouch of money to the weapon's seller as they leave the shop. "Now you must practice with me. I imagine you will be a formidable opponent, when you know your weapon well."

Fran realises from the look on his face that he has missed that, in his exile -- someone to spar with. She tests the idea in her mind: fighting Balthier, turning her skills against him, finding his weaknesses as an opponent rather than an ally. She smiles. "I fear you underestimate me still. I will be a formidable opponent from the very first moment."

He bows a little, mockingly. "We shall see. Now, a place to practice..." He pauses for a moment, and then nods. "This way," he says, and leads her into a deserted courtyard where just an hour ago there were children playing. A more dangerous game, this. She recognises the stance he takes up; usual, easy, a good position for movement. There is only a split second of thought before she finds her own stance -- it will look unbalanced to him; create the illusion of weakness where there is truly strength.

"I am ready," she says, calmly. Balthier nods, and she sees him carefully assessing her stance, the steadiness of the weapon in her hand. There is a flash of a smile before he attacks, lighter on his feet than she expected but still attacking her supposed weak point. A flick of her weapon, a step to the side, and he is the one disadvantaged, his weapon turned aside, his side exposed.

"A bold move," Balthier says, and there is amusement in his voice as he whips around -- if he were trying, now, she knows he would have skewered her. "Pay attention, Fran. There may be tricks to counter tricks."

"And you the greatest trickster of them all," she says, and she finds that she, too, wants to laugh.

"There is no one better, 'tis true. Your technique may match mine, but your wiliness -- no."

She sidesteps again, gauging his defences again and trying to draw him out. When focused on the attack, sometimes he slips -- not enough for a monster to kill him, of course, but enough for a lucky strike. Her sword flicks out; his turns it aside.

"We are well-matched," he says, and there is perhaps some surprise in his voice.

"We always are."

"That is true," Balthier says, and there is a kind of bewildered pleasure in his voice -- and he is off his guard. Fran lunges forward, her rapier point brushing his side.

"Pay attention," she says, a teasing smile on her face. 


End file.
